The Way the Light Rose
by Abigail-Nicole
Summary: It's not like losing a friend, or a lover, or whatever, it's not something you can move on from, it's not someone you've just known for two years or whatever, it's someone who was you, who was part of you at one time...it's not just a brother.


**The Way the Light Rose**

**Author's Notes**: I couldn't find anywhere the name of George's wife (though his first son's name is Fred) so I used Angelina as the random girl. This whole thing is because of the Tori Amos song _Toast_.

* * *

The room was the same as ever. Twin beds sat in opposite corners, with their matching red-and-white bedspreads--one rumpled and dirty, the other roughly made, a pillow thrown on top of its minute wrinkles. Sunlight, barely filtered through half-open curtains, drifted across the room through swirling dust to alight on the beds, giving life to their red and white covers. Other articles remained the same, too. The desks at the end of the beds were still covered in papers and half-eaten food, unidentifiable objects in the midst of being put together or taken apart, hurried notes written in blue ink. Sitting in the far corner of the rumpled bed, on the left half of the room, was George Weasley. He slumped, lifelessly, against one wall, staring aimlessly into space. Dirty plates, dropped onto the floor behind his bed, measured time, if you counted them right--twelve plates divided by three equaled four days. A notebook, open to a blank page, had been set on the bed beside him, untouched. In his hands he held a ball, which he fumbled with unconsciously, as if in a trance. 

The sunlight dwindled, the lines of golden swirling dust growing narrower and narrower until they vanished, and George sat on his bed until the light went away.

He still lived above the store. He liked to hear the people coming and going, listening to their laughter, their talking, the bangs and explosions, the loud thump of feet and the cheerful honk of the door--Fred had done away with doorbells, making the door sound the explosive cry of a Canadian Goose when opened. He liked listening to these things, because they reminded him of things, of the way things used to be. He didn't touch the bed on the other side of the room, or anything. He moved in and out of the door as if there were an invisible line dividing the room in two, and to go over the line would be blasphemy of the highest order. He tried not to think about the line, refusing to acknowledge it in his mind, like he tried not to think about school or money or family or anything, really.

Ron brought him the paper, every day, knocking awkwardly at the door and pulling it open after a while when George said nothing. He did it tonight, as well, knocking his signature knock--three half-audible knocks, as if he were afraid to make a noise. George counted twelve seconds before the door opened.

"George?" Ron peered into the dark room. A crack of light slashed across the carpet, throwing a narrow ribbon of light onto the curtains. It illuminated Ron's orange hair like a halo, and he shuffled into the room awkwardly, pulling the door open all the way. The light grew wider, a thick rectangle across the floor and up the opposite wall.

"I brought you the paper," Ron said when it became obvious George wasn't going to reply. "There's...um...they mentioned you," he offered, after another moment of silence. "There's a column they're doing on Hidden Heroes of Hogwarts and you're in there...you and Fred both...remember, they tried to interview you last week but you weren't feeling well..." he faltered and stopped talking. Silence filled the room like smoke.

"I'll just leave it here, then," he said, to George's proffered silence, setting the paper on the bed next to the notebook. "I see you haven't written anything," he said, awkward again. "Ginny wanted you to write her a letter, she's engaged to Harry you know and she really wanted you to come to the engagement party..."

Harry Potter. The name was heavy. He'd given them a thousand Galleons to start the joke shop, once, and they'd sworn a debt of loyalty to him. If you're killed by that, George wondered, does that mean you've paid? The thought drifted across his mind like a ship, unconnected to any feelings, on the surface. Deep below it, something stirred.

"Mum's worried about you," Ron said, fidgeting awkwardly. "She's going to stop by tomorrow..."

"Don't," said George, monotonous, without moving. "I don't want to see her."

"She's your mum, George, you can't just ignore her..." Ron protested, then trailed off. George didn't move. "I'm your brother too, you know," he said, quietly, half-hoping George wouldn't hear the words.

"Yeah," George said, turning to look at him. It was the first time he'd moved all day, and when Ron met his eyes he wanted to leave.

"I'm here if you want to talk," he said awkwardly. "I'm going to get back, I've got to sweep up the shop...okay...Get some sleep..."

He waited for a response but there was none. George was back in his former position, unmoving, silent. He shut the door quietly, taking the light with him. Darkness filled the room, stifling George, but he was used to that by now. "But you're not my twin," George said, the words small in the darkness. He slumped down further until he was lying on the bed, facedown in the covers.

It was morning before he moved again, jolted awake by a lound banging on his door. It wasn't Ron's awkward knocks this time--these were five great big thumps that shook the doorframe. "George Weasley!" someone yelled, knocking again. "Get up right now!"

George sat up, rubbing his eyes, and the door opened. Angelina Johnson came in, slamming the door behind her. "What's this that you haven't been out of bed in a week?" she demanded, crossing her arms. "Ron says you haven't said a word to anyone all week? You think I'm going to get you do this?"

George blinked. "I said something to Ron yesterday," he said, his voice hoarse from disuse.

"What was that?" Angelina demanded.

George shrugged, not saying anything. Angelina stood where she was, resolute. "You think you can just sit up here and waste away--you're wrong," she said flatly. "I'm damned if I let you rot in here feeling sorry for yourself. what would Fred say? He'd make fun of you mercilessly and never let you live it down."

"Fred's not here," George said. His voice was unpretentious, tired, and hoarse. He didn't look at Angelina as she talked. Angelina's face softened and she sat down.

"I know," she said, her voice more gentle. "I lost family members too, George. I lost a brother."

"I have lots of brothers," George said. "But no more twins."

"But you still have a life," Angelina said. "You still have a future and a business and a big family who loves you. What about those people who lost everything? Who lost mother, father, brother, sister, lover? Do you think you're more important than them?"

"It's not the same," George said, still unmoving. His eyes stared at something just beyond Angelina's head, unfocused.

Angelina repressed the urge to slap his face. "What?" she asked, sitting back on her heels. "What makes you so special, George Weasley?"

George didn't speak, but slowly his eyes came back to focus. Light from the curtains swirled in the air on dust particles. "It's not the same," he repeated, looking at Angelina's face this time. "None of those people were ever close. They weren't..." he trailed off, shaking his head slightly. His fingers groped across the bed for the ball, abandoned during sleep. Angelina waited, her arms crossed.

"We were the same person," he said finally. "Identical twins, one egg into two, our hearts were in sync before we were ever born. Angelina...it's not like losing a friend, or a brother, or whatever, it's not something you can move on, it's not someone you've just known for two years or whatever, it's someone who was you, who was part of you at one time, who can read your thoughts without trying because you just think the same way...it's not just a brother," he said. This time the silence was dead and full and there was no filling it.

"I'm sorry," Angelina said, softly. "It's going to be hard. You...you had it easy, George," she said, standing up. "Nobody else gets a connection like that. Everyone is walking out there alone, people who have never even had that connection, trying to live their lives and trying to communicate the best they know how without that bond. You will do it. You will have to. You can't live like this, and you are going to live. It's not easy," she said, and sat down on the bed beside him. In a dusty ray of sunlight, she covered his fingers with hers, the gesture simple and complete. "You just have to talk to us," she said. "Talk to me."

George turned his head to look at her. Their eyes met, and for once her face was unwavering, unafraid of his pain. His hand gripped hers, then, tightly, and their lips met in the dusty sunlight.

Later on that night, Angelina and George emerged from his room, leaving the door open. When they walked downstairs, His family was sitting around a big table, set up in the back room, and when he walked into the room, Molly stood up and ran across the room to hug him. "I've been so worried about you," she said, hugging him tightly.

He hugged her back, unused to the touch. "Thanks, mum," he said, looking down at the top of her head. He looked around the table. Ron, Ginny, Harry, Arthur, Bill, Charlie, Hermione, even Percy were there. "Thanks, everybody," he said, but when Molly let him go it was Angelina's hand he clutched before walking over to the table.

_I thought it was Easter time  
The way the light rose  
Rose that morning  
Lately you've been on my mind  
You showed me the rope  
Ropes to climb  
Over mountains  
And to pull myself  
Out of a landslide  
of a landslide..._


End file.
